#sub!dean

He told himself he wouldn’t do this. Told himself a thousand times. But there’s only so many bottles you can drain, only so many half-assed apologies you can rewrite in your head before grief grabs you by the collar and says go.

So now he’s here. Soaked. Cold. And so fucking sorry he doesn’t know where to put it all.

His boots leave prints on the concrete. He stares at your door like it might swallow him.

And then he knocks. Not hard. Not loud. But heavy—like the kind of knock that comes with a name in its mouth.

He hears the shuffling. The soft footfalls. The pause behind the door.

When it opens, you’re bathed in that warm, still light. Bare legs. Oversized shirt. Hair twisted up haphazardly, ringlets sticking out like soft rebellion. And your face—god, your face—is unreadable.

Not bitter. Not hurt. Just… done.

Dean feels his ribs splinter.

You sigh. Loud. Tired. Like this is the last fucking thing you wanted tonight.

“I told you not to come back.”

He swallows. His voice scrapes its way out like it’s been hiding too long in his throat.

“I miss Cas.”

It’s not an answer. It’s not even a real sentence. But it’s all he’s got.

You don’t flinch. You just look up at the rain like it might wash the ache off your bones. Then you shake your head—once, sharp—and step aside.

“Take your boots off. Don’t drag all that shit through my hallway.”

And just like that, he’s inside.

But he’s never felt farther away from you.

The door shuts behind him with a soft click. Final. Clean. Like you’ve done this before—closed him out. Closed him off.

Dean stands just inside the threshold, shoulders dripping, breath fogging faintly in the warm air. The apartment smells like lemon and sandalwood. Like soap. Like you’ve been scrubbing.

He bends to untie his boots. Rainwater pools at his feet, and he watches it soak into your welcome mat. That used to say “home,” once. Now it just says “hello.”

He toes the boots off and sets them neatly beside the door, even though it’s pointless—there’s already a mess behind him.

He straightens up. And then he sees it. The hallway.

Different.

The paint—olive green. The exact shade you used to point out in every damn swatch book. The one he always said you could do “later.” The one he never got around to.

His gut twists. It looks good. It looks finished.

But all he can think is:

She waited until I was gone to make it feel like hers.

There’s no coat rack anymore. No photos on the wall—none of the two of you at that cabin last winter, none of that blurry one Sam took of you both laughing on the bunker steps. Gone. All of it.

It feels like he’s been erased.

You don’t wait for him. You’ve already turned your back and padded softly down the hallway, leaving a faint trail of heat in your wake.

Dean follows. Silent. Drenched. Swallowing hard against the ache rising in his chest like bile.

The living room is next. It hits him like a punch.

The couch has been moved. The coffee table’s different. Lighter wood. Modern. The books on it are new, the throw blanket across the back of the armchair isn’t the navy one he used to steal during movie nights—it’s pale. Cream-coloured. Fragile-looking.

There’s a candle burning on the windowsill. The whole place is calm. Curated. Cleansed.

It’s like she burned sage and swept out my ghost.

You drop onto the couch like this is just another Thursday night.

He stands there, dripping on the hardwood, watching you tuck your legs up beneath you like you used to do when you were wrapped in his flannel. You’re not wearing his flannel now.

“You gonna stand there all night?” You don’t look at him when you say it.

Dean swallows. His tongue feels too big in his mouth. His throat burns.

“Place looks different.”

Still no eye contact.

“It should. I live here now.”

And that’s the moment.

That’s the moment something inside him starts to die.

Because you’re not being cruel. You’re not trying to wound him. You’re just telling the truth. And it hurts so much more than if you’d screamed.

You don’t look at him when you speak again. You just rise from the couch, padding barefoot toward the kitchen like this is just another moment in a life where he doesn’t matter anymore.

“You want tea or something?”

You say it like it’s a reflex. Like it’s muscle memory. Dean’s jaw tightens.

“Yeah. Uh. Sure.”

His voice sounds foreign in this room. Like it echoes wrong. Like the air doesn’t know him anymore.

You disappear behind the half-wall, and he stares at the space you left behind like a fucking idiot. The throw pillows don’t match anymore. The lamp’s been moved. The blanket’s cream instead of navy. The silence is clinical. Disinfected.

He turns his head slightly. Eyes catch the mug tree beside the microwave.

And it hits him.

That dumb mug. The one with the cartoon possum and the words “I hate mornings” in all caps. The one he’d shoved into your hands after a shitty hunt in Tulsa, saying “figured this was your vibe.”

The one you used to drink out of every morning, tucked into his chest, humming along to ELO on the shitty kitchen speaker.

Gone. Not broken. Not misplaced. Removed.

Like it never mattered.

You return, setting a steaming mug on the coffee table in front of him. Not in his hands. Not with a smile.

Just… placed. Offered.

“Still take it black?”

Dean nods, voice lost in his throat.

You sit again. Quiet. Perfect posture. One leg tucked beneath you, your fingers curled loosely around your own mug. You don’t ask him why he’s here. You don’t need to.

You’ve always been good at waiting people out.

He takes a breath.

“I didn’t know how to talk to anyone. After Cas. After—everything.”

You don’t blink. You don’t shift.

“You stopped talking to me long before that.”

He flinches.

Because it’s true. Because you said it like it was just another fact, not a wound.

The rain still whispers against the windowpane. The candle on the sill flickers.

Dean swallows hard and stares at the steam curling from the mug like it might spell something useful.

“You look better. Without me.”

You look at him then.

Not soft. Not smug. Just… calm, and whisper: “I am.”

And it guts him.

Worse than purgatory. Worse than hell.

Because you didn’t say it to be cruel. You said it like you’d finally accepted the truth. Like he was a fever you’d sweat out, and now you were clean.

He lowers himself onto the couch, slowly, like he might break the furniture just by existing near it.

His voice is barely a breath.

“Can I sit?”

You shrug. Take a sip.

“You can sit. Doesn’t mean you get to stay.”

Dean shifts on the edge of the couch like it might bite him. He hasn’t touched the coffee. He won’t. Not yet.

Your fingers are curled around your mug, steam softening the line of your jaw, but your mouth is a straight, unreadable thing.

He stares at you. Like maybe if he memorises you again, it’ll turn back time.

He opens his mouth.

“I miss yo—”

You don’t even blink.

“Don’t.”

He flinches like he’s been slapped.

You look at him then, eyes steady and hollowed out, voice quiet and bone-sharp.

“I don’t want to hear you lie anymore. You don’t get to miss me, Dean. Not after the way things went down.”

He tries again. Stammers. Fingers twitching on his knees like maybe if he moves, this won’t feel so final.

“I—I didn’t mean for it to go like that. I was just—I lost Cas, and then I lost myself, and—”

“And you lost me.” You say it so simply it makes his throat tighten. “And you didn’t come looking. Not really.”

He opens his mouth again but nothing comes out.

You sigh—long, soft, like a teacher tired of hearing excuses from the same failing student.

“I went through all five stages after you left. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. Over and over. Like clockwork. For months.”

You set your mug down. Look him straight in the eyes.

“And then I stopped.”

Dean swallows. His whole chest feels like it’s collapsing in on itself. You’re too calm. Too composed. Too healed.

“I stopped because I realised I really did deserve better.”

He shakes his head. Not because he disagrees, but because he’s spiralling.

“I’m sorry. I—I didn’t know how to fix it, I didn’t know how to say it—”

You cut him off again, but softer this time. No venom. Just truth.

“I mourned you, Dean. I mourned us. What we were. What we could’ve been.”

You pause. Let the silence stretch.

“And I mourned me. The version of me that thought love meant waiting for someone who wouldn’t show up.”

He’s reeling now. Because the words aren’t cruel. They’re not even angry. They’re just… final.

And that’s what kills him.

That’s what cracks him open.

Because he’s desperate now. For the touch, for the warmth, for the version of you that used to curl into his side like he was a place to rest.

But she’s not here. And he’s realising he might’ve buried her with his silence.

Dean looks like he’s about to speak—twice—but stops himself both times. His hands twitch in his lap. His knee starts to bounce. He opens his mouth, shuts it again, scrubs a hand down his face like he can wipe the helplessness off.

“I—fuck, I didn’t come here to—I didn’t mean to upset you—”

“Then why did you come here?”

Your voice cuts clean through the static of his panic. You tilt your head, eyes sharp now, sharper than they’ve been all night. Something in you shifts—tired, maybe, or just done playing therapist to a man who only ever wanted you when you were slipping away.

“You need closure or something? You want me to pat your hand and tell you you’re still a good man?”

Dean’s mouth parts. He doesn’t speak.

“Is that it?”

You lean back into the couch like you’ve already decided this isn’t worth your energy. The dismissal burns in his chest.

“If that’s what you came for… fine. I’ll give you closure.”

Your voice is steel beneath silk.

“But then you leave. And you leave me the hell alone.”

Dean shifts forward like something’s pulled his whole body toward you.

“No—no, I didn’t come here for that, I—I didn’t know what else to do. I—I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and I know that doesn’t fix shit, but I’m here. I need—Jesus, I need you, I—”

You sigh, sharp and frustrated.

And Dean—God help him—lights up inside at the sound. Not because you’re forgiving him. Not because you’re softening. But because finally, finally, you’re reacting.

“Thank Christ,” he breathes, almost a whisper. “I thought—fuck, I thought I lost even that.”

You look at him like you might laugh. Like you might cry. You don’t do either.

“You’re unbelievable.”

He lurches forward slightly on the couch. Closer. Knees almost touching yours now. There’s something different in the air between you—still heavy, still rotten—but now it’s crackling too. Charged.

You lean in a little. Not much. Just enough that he notices.

“What is it you want from me, Dean? You want me to scream? You want me to throw something?”

Your voice is low now. Measured. Tired and electric all at once.

“You want me to feel something again for you?”

His throat bobs as he swallows.

“I want you to look at me like you used to. I want you to touch me like I’m still worth something.”

Silence.

The kind that aches.

And then—

You reach forward slowly, place your mug on the table. Dean’s breath catches. You turn back to him.

“If you want closure… you can have it.”

The words sit between you like an open door.

And Dean’s already halfway through it.

He doesn’t move at first. Just stares at you like he’s waiting for your approval. But you don’t give it. You just lean back on the couch—spine against the cushions, legs slightly parted, watching him with the kind of cool disinterest that should have gutted him.

Instead, it makes his cock twitch.

He swallows again. His throat is dry. Everything else is wet.

“You said… closure.”

Your fingers trail lazily along the inside of your thigh, not even touching the hem of the long shirt you’re wearing. Just resting there. Like he’s not worth the effort of anticipation.

Dean exhales, shaky. Then his hands move to the fly of his jeans, slow and fumbling. The fabric clings to him, soaked through, and he has to peel it down—dragging wet denim down his thighs like it’s a punishment.

His boxers follow. Dark and damp and clinging low on his hips. He’s already hard—of course he is.

He looks at you.

Still nothing.

No heat. No softness. Just cool appraisal, like you’re deciding whether or not to let him crawl closer.

“Please.”

It slips out without permission. He winces at it—but doesn’t take it back.

You raise an eyebrow, just slightly.

“Please what?”

Your voice is bored. Detached. But cutting.

Dean’s knees hit the floor.

The carpet scratches his skin. He doesn’t care. He’s kneeling in front of you now, cock flushed and twitching, hands flexing on your thighs but not daring to move further.

You still haven’t touched him.

“Please,” he whispers again. “Please let me… just let me—”

Your head tilts. Like you’re studying something pathetic. A little sad. A little entertaining.

“Let you what, Dean?”

He groans. A sound from deep in his chest—frustrated, humiliated, needy.

“Let me taste you. Let me feel you again. Just once.”

You don’t smile.

“You’re dripping all over my carpet.”

That should’ve shamed him. Instead, he moans. Low. Breathless. Eyes fluttering closed for a second like even that insult feeds him.

“Fuck—fuck, I know. I’m sorry. I’ll clean it, I’ll do whatever you want, just—”

Your hand tangles in his damp hair, finally. Fingers gripping the roots, tilting his head back so he’s forced to look up at you.

Your eyes are cold. Detached. Like he’s a stranger in your home.

“You’re not here because I love you,” you murmur. “You’re here because I’m kind.”

Dean swallows a whimper.

“I know. I know. Just—please. I need you. I need this.”

You release his hair and lean back again, spreading your legs just enough that he gets the message.

And he moves—mouth already open, eyes glazed with gratitude and something feral.

He dives between your thighs like a man starved.

And above him, you don’t moan. You don’t whisper his name. You just lie there, gaze distant, chest rising slowly, as if none of this really matters anymore.

Dean eats you like it’s the last thing that will ever make him feel whole again. And maybe it is.

Your fingers thread through his hair again—but not like before. Not to guide. Not to praise. Just to push him back.

“Might as well stop.”

Your voice slices clean through the haze. Dean pulls back from between your thighs, lips swollen, chin slick, pupils blown wide. He blinks up at you like he’s just been slapped.

“What?”

“You’re not gonna make me come like this anymore.”

You stretch out lazily, like this is all beneath you. Like he’s beneath you.

“You aren't getting me off.”

Dean looks like he’s reeling. Like you’ve just kicked the air out of his lungs. His hands shake as they grip your thighs.

“Why—Why do you hate me?”

His voice cracks in the middle, breaking like bone.

He drags you down the couch in a single, desperate pull—your ass sliding to the edge, your legs open around him like muscle memory.

But you don’t flinch. You don’t reach for him. You look down at him with steady, surgical detachment.

“I don’t hate you, Dean.”

He freezes.

His chest stills. His eyes search yours. Something flutters in them—hope. Fragile and stupid.

Until you keep going.

“To hate someone, you have to feel something for them.”

You tilt your head.

“And I don’t feel anything for you anymore.”

He makes a sound—not a groan, not a growl—something small. Wounded. Like something inside him is caving in.

Then he presses forward. Drags himself through your folds like he’s begging for forgiveness with his body.

You don’t sigh. You don’t gasp. You just watch him.

And then—

He shoves inside you.

A single, desperate thrust. Full. Deep. Like it’s penance. Dean’s whole body shudders. His head drops forward against your chest. He’s panting. Hard. Like every breath is a plea.

“Fuck. Fuck—please—”

You say nothing.

You let him fuck into you like he’s trying to remember how it used to feel when you wanted him. You don’t move. Don’t cling. Don’t kiss. And he whimpers against your skin.

He’s never felt so close to breaking.

Dean’s fucking into you like a prayer gone unanswered. Desperate. Messy. Panting like he’s running out of time and maybe he is, maybe he already has. His hands are bruising your hips, but you barely flinch.

Your eyes are half-lidded, glazed with disinterest. He’s rutting like a man possessed, and you’re just lying there—head back, lips parted, gaze fixed on some invisible point on the ceiling. Not him. Never him.

“You think you can fuck your way to absolution,” you murmur. “Like I’ll forgive everything just because you’re on your knees now.”

Dean whimpers. A real one. From the throat, cracked and choked.

“I didn’t mean to—I never wanted to hurt you, I just—”

You cut him off with a sharp breath through your nose.

“You didn’t mean to lie to me? Didn’t mean to disappear when I needed you the most? Didn’t mean to make me feel small, like I was some extra weight you didn’t ask to carry?”

His thrusts falter. Sloppier now. Like your words are striking bone.

“You left me to drown in that silence. You left me to claw my way out of the wreckage alone.”

He moans like he’s being stabbed. Like he wants to argue, but his hips won’t stop moving—won’t stop confessing for him.

And then you say it.

Cold. Clinical. A scalpel dragged across the throat of everything you used to be:

“Wow.”

You meet his eyes.

“This used to feel so much better when I loved you.”

He freezes.

Mid-thrust. Mid-breath. His body stills completely, cock buried deep inside you, shaking. His mouth parts like he wants to say your name but doesn’t dare.

You stare down at him.

Still. Unbothered. Like you didn’t just reach into his chest and rip his heart out bare-handed.

His eyes shimmer. His jaw works. He’s not moving anymore—just trembling, thick and aching inside you, trying to hold on to a version of you that doesn’t exist anymore.

You don’t kiss him. You don’t comfort him. You just sigh.

“Finish if you’re gonna finish, Dean. I’m tired.”

And that’s what breaks him. Because you’re not angry. You’re over it. And he never will be.

He starts moving again.

Hesitant at first—like he’s afraid you’ll stop him. Or worse, won’t. The thrusts come slow, then desperate, then frantic. His fingers dig into your hips. His forehead presses against your shoulder.

You still don’t move. Still don’t moan. Still don’t give him anything.

And that’s what makes him fucking lose it.

“Please,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “Please, baby, I—I need you to…”

He trails off because he doesn’t even know what he needs. A sound. A sigh. A twitch of your hand in his hair. Anything.

But you just stare past him like he’s a dream you woke from years ago.

“Fuck—talk to me—say something, anything, I can’t—”

His voice catches. He thrusts harder. Pathetically hard. His whole body shudders with effort. He’s panting like a dog in heat, chasing a ghost of who you used to be.

“I’ll be better—just let me—please, let me make you feel something—”

Nothing.

You’re just a warm, wet grave he’s digging into, begging for resurrection. And there’s no miracle coming.

“I love you,” he gasps. “God, I love you, I love you—”

He’s trembling now, losing rhythm, hips stuttering—

You blink slowly, as if the weight of those words is no heavier than a breeze.

He chokes out a sob and pulls out at the last second, fisting himself hard and fast with one shaky hand, mouth slack as his whole body jerks—

He spills across your mound with a broken moan, spend hot between your bodies, dripping down your skin as his hand goes slack.

He starts to collapse forward, but you shift slightly, sitting up on your elbows.

And he—fucking desperate—wraps his arms around you from the awkward angle, smushing himself against you, face buried in your chest, breathing hard.

His cum smears between you both, sticky and hot and miserable. He doesn’t care. He just holds on.

“Don’t go,” he mumbles into your skin. “Just—just a little while longer, let me hold you.”

You sigh. Not emotional. Not annoyed. Just… done. You rest your hands on his shoulders—flat, impersonal—and then you push.

He lets you.

You sit up, slide out from beneath him, the wet drag of him pulling away leaving a ghost behind.

You stand, bare but untouchable, and turn to face him where he still kneels.His face is flushed. Eyes red. Chest heaving.

You don’t pity him.

“Dean,” you say softly.

He looks up like he’s ready to say I’m sorry again. Like he’s ready to beg.

You don’t let him.

“You need to get out of my apartment now.”

His mouth opens.

“Leave me the hell alone.”

He flinches.

“For good.”

The words hit like bullets. Final. Precise. You don’t say them with cruelty. You say them like you’re taking out the trash. Because that’s all that’s left of this.

He stares up at you. Still hard. Still dripping. Still hoping.

But your eyes are empty. And this time, he knows you mean it.

He stands slowly. Pulls his pants back up. Doesn’t bother with his wet jacket. And when he walks to the door, you don’t follow. You don’t say goodbye.

You just wipe yourself clean, light a candle, and turn the page.

author note/s: hey everybody, so instead of forcing myself to finish editing and posting the next part of "cruel summer", i decided to work through some of my current trauma by writing this utterly devastating and depressing piece. i don't know. i just need it at the moment. it's the first time in weeks i've felt motivated to write and i'm angry as fuck at my ex and i needed a way to vent. so here it is. i know dean's being pathetic in this one, like even for sub!dean but i'm living vicariously through this so shh please. let me know what y'all think. i love all of you, so much. all the love.

dean taglist: @losers-clvb @bejeweledinterludes @bruisedfig @angelicjackles @soldiersgirl @tinas111 @sacr1ficialang3l @blossomingorchids @drakulana @mostlymarvelgirl @lunaleah @liiiilsss @0ccvltism @itshellfire @sl33pylilbunny @nevercameraready @paristheonewhoreads @podiumackles @suckitands33 @lyarr24 @spxideyver @winchestersbgirl @mj-102009 @kaz-2y5-spn @bohoooitsme @n3lly-h3artz @ladykitana90 @deangirlsstuff67 <3